


The Night Lands

by S_IRIS



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Civil War, F/F, F/M, Intrigue, King's Landing, Politics, Post-Season/Series 06, Post-Season/Series 06 Finale, Slow Build, Tragedy, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-08 22:59:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7777036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_IRIS/pseuds/S_IRIS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winter has come, and so have the dragons. All gods will be forgotten, save for one: Death.</p><p>Post Season 6 Finale of Game of Thrones (TV)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, I've been trying very hard not to write this because of the huge amount of time that might (would) be invested into this. But I just couldn't resist.
> 
> Also, we're doing a fantasy Game of Thrones committee, simulating Daenerys' future Queen's council, at our MUN at university, so well. . . that's about the list of reasonable reasons I could scavenge out of the myriad of unreasonable and completely self-destructive ones.
> 
> The story follows the TV series plotlines. Warning: I've only read the first two books. And please don't judge me for liking the series more than the books.  
> Written with the assumption that Jon is NOT the blood of the dragon (he burns his hands saving Mormont from that wight, remember?). However, it doesn't mean that Jon doesn't _have_ magic.
> 
> Warning: Major Character Death. Well, that's a given in GoT, isn't it?
> 
> Valar Morghulis

They didn't have much to do on the water. Even though Tyrion was familiar with spending a night or two cooped up in a box with his own shit and vomit across the Narrow Sea, back then he hadn't been as much worried about the absence of the sweet smell of wine as much as he had been paranoid, that somehow Cersei's men would capture their ship, and turn it around back to King's Landing, for this time, he had committed a crime. The shine of Lannister gold could be seen even across the Narrow Sea, or so they claimed. And Tyrion had never been so afraid of his deceased father's wealth.

"Dornishmen without their wine, hah!" he had remarked to Varys when the Dornish and the Tyrell fleet met them halfway off the coast of Stepstones with supplies for their men, "Now that's a first."

Varys had tutted and moved away in his hunched, silent fashion in Missandei's direction, a direction Tyrion often found him going.

Now, all there was to do was to watch Daenerys mount Drogon on the sea, wild and free, and give her and Missandei lessons on Westerosi culture. Once or twice, Drogon flew too close to their ship, nearly tearing through their sails, but he always seemed to steer past at the last moment, once even forcing Varys to duck away in a most undignified manner. They all laughed at that, most of all the Ironborn.

The map of Westeros lay in front of them: him, Varys, Missandei and Daenerys, in the Queen's cabin, seated in a circle. They reasoned that Daenerys had to know the people she was going to rule over, so that she didn't make a mess of it, as she had done in Slaver's Bay (but Tyrion did not voice that aloud). Ellaria Sand had yet to join their group and to greet them formally, and had yet to discover that Daenerys had named a Lannister her Hand. And had yet to resort to one of her highly undiplomatic fits.

 

Daenerys sat up straight, and pointed to the West, "Tell me more about the Westerlands."

Tyrion tried not to sigh. As of late, Daenerys had become more and more interested in the West, about his family, his siblings and his father, even though she spoke of them with thinly-veiled anger, and sometimes with almost indistinguishable pain in her voice. Tyrion could not imagine her position—the only Targaryen remaining in the world, of the loneliness she must feel sometimes. Tyrion knew what family meant—what Jaime meant—even if he probably would hack him to pieces the next time they faced each other.

He wished he wouldn’t find Jaime in King’s Landing, but he knew Cersei and her paranoia. She’d orchestrated a coup. She’d taken the Throne. At first, when Varys had told him that Tommen and Myrcella were both dead, he did not believe it. And then, when he’d told him that she’d killed them herself so that she could be the Queen, he did not believe him even more. Cersei wouldn’t do that, wouldn’t kill her children. She’d once told him that they were the reason she hadn’t ended her life.

No, Jaime would be at her side. Guarding her, protecting her. But then, what of Casterly Rock, then?

"The biggest city of the Westerlands is Lannisport. Silk, spices, wine, from Qarth and Volantis to the Summer Isles," he pointed at the distant bottom-most right corner of the map, "everything is traded here. Majority of the gold is mined in this region," he outlined a circle around the cities, "but you've heard the bit about Lannisters and debts—"

"A Lannister always pays his debts?" Missandei retorted, "That must be an overly used phrase. Everyone pays their debts, eventually."

Tyrion chuckled, "Not the crown, Missandei. Before I was accused of regicide, I happened to be the King's Master of Coin. And I can reliably inform you, my Queen, that the realm, the kingdoms you intend to rule," he looked at Daenerys', and then to the Braavos on the map, "are tens of millions in debt. To the Iron Bank of Braavos," he pointed on the map, "and to us, the Lannisters. Well, to my father."

Daenerys frowned, "Your father is dead."

"Yes, and since the Lannisters of Casterly Rock are Lords of the Westerlands and my older brother has been relieved of the Kingsguard, he's the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and Warden of the West. The crown is three million in debt to him."

"That'll change," she whispered. Her eyes had the sort of hunger and intent he’d only seen on Cersei’s face. Her fingers touched Casterly Rock, and then Riverrun and then the Twins. Tyrion knew he had to choose his next words carefully.

“He broke me out of prison, Your Grace. He’s the reason I’m here. He’s the—”

“And you’re the reason his father’s dead, Lord Hand” Daenerys looked at him intently. Varys turned, frowning.

“Leave us,” she said, and the two of them bowed and left at once without a sound, leaving Tyrion with her. He pursed his lips, studying her. She was arguing for argument’s sake; she was testing him. And she was enjoying the verbal spar as far as he could tell, so he chose to indulge, just a little bit more.

“He was my father too.”

“As the Mad King was mine.”

He understood her meaning. If Jaime didn’t forgive him for Tywin’s death, Daenerys won’t certainly forgive Jaime for killing the Mad King. He refrained from calling Aerys Targaryen as the ‘Mad King’ but Daenerys did not. She made her father’s title a part of her identity, as was her blood.

_Every time a Targaryen is born, the Gods toss a coin. . ._

Daenerys was a Queen, fair enough. Her people would see her, would follow her, would take inspiration from her strength and her justice. But Tyrion knew one thing. Good kings and queens were, more often than not, bad governors. So, Tyrion chose a different strategy to humor her.

“My Queen, for people in our position, nursing grudges can be a bit . . . counterproductive. When Robert Baratheon took the Throne, he pardoned Ser Barristan Selmy, Varys, and Grand Maester Pycelle, even though they had all served your father—”

Daenerys frowned, “What about Littlefinger?"

Tyrion looked at Daenerys with mild irritation, only till the levels he was allowed to in front of his Queen. Being her Hand, Tyrion was allowed more liberty than anyone else, save Missandei.

On the day they left Meereen, Tyrion had begun Daenerys' crash course on the history of the Seven Kingdoms since the Targaryens came to power, and of all the great lords of Westeros. Daenerys was very focussed, and in many ways, an ideal student. In the beginning, she had been very interested in the exploits of Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters. But as they moved towards the present, her interest moved from Aegon to Lord Harren and his sons to Jaehaerys I to Baelor the Blessed to Tywin Lannister and her brother Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark. And then, understandably, to Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark, and then to Littlefinger. Since then, he had been unable to shift her interest elsewhere.

The first time he'd opened the map, he had pointed at the East considering Daenerys' potential marriage alliances, on the Eyrie, like Maester Volarik would, to teach him all that he already knew at the age of six, "That's the Vale. Lords - the Arryns. Sigil - a falcon over the moon. The Eyrie is the seat of their power. They have one of the finest warriors in the realm."

Daenerys had frowned, retaining that information, "Who's their leader now?"

"Well, Robin Arryn is a sickly boy, barely fifteen, I think—"

"Thirteen, my lord," Varys had interrupted.

Daenerys had then smiled conspiratorially, one of her rare, mischief-filled smiles that she didn't have when she was  _Queen_  Daenerys, "He'd be the perfect husband, won't he, Missandei?"

Tyrion had narrowed his eyes, trying very hard to control the image creeping into his mind. Missandei had smiled, "Not if you want to further the line of succession, Your Grace."

That's when Daenerys' smile had died away. Tyrion smiled sympathetically, knowing how she felt. Despite being the Queen Regnant of the Seven Kingdoms, her most important task was still to give the kingdom heirs.

"My Queen," Varys had filled the void with his courteous, slightly worried tone of words, "Robin Arryn may be Lord of the Vale, but for the sake of a complete picture, might I inform you that Lord Petyr Baelish is currently the Lord Protector of the Vale and Warden of the East?"

Daenerys had looked up at Varys, who had just opened the can of worms for the first time, "Lord Littlefinger? Of the Small Council?"

Tyrion had given her a questioning look. He didn't know that she knew about Littlefinger.

"Ser Jorah told me a little," she had answered.

"I'm afraid he's left the Small Council, Your Grace," Varys had replied, "He was granted the seat of Harrenhal by royal decree, and then he married Lady Lysa of the Vale, making him Lord Paramount of the Trident."

Varys had said no more. Tyrion knew there was no love lost between Varys and Littlefinger, but he didn't understand why he didn't warn her. Varys and he had then exchanged glances, before the former had looked away to gaze out of the window at the endless blue sea.

"My Queen, Littlefinger did not serve your father," he reminded her once again, jolting back to the present, "He became the Master of Coin under Jon Arryn's patronage. He's served in that position ever since."

"How many kings has he served?"

“One less than I have, I’m afraid. However, the only person Littlefinger truly serves is himself, my Queen,” Varys entered their cabin, showing them a roll of parchment in his grip, “Disturbing news from Westeros.”

“What is it?”

Varys unrolled it and gave it to Daenerys, “From the Riverlands and Winterfell, You Grace. Apparently, Sansa Stark became Sansa Bolton before becoming Sansa Stark again.”

Tyrion looked at the parchment worriedly. He hadn’t heard, or cared to hear, about Sansa after his escape. The worries of an unhappy wife and suicidal thoughts did not mix well, even in a merry place like Pentos.

Daenerys looked at Tyrion, worry playing on the deepest wrinkles of her frown, “You said this would happen. You said, when the Ironborn asked for independence. And now, half the kingdom has declared themselves independent.”

Tyrion shook his head, “Northmen hold the Starks as the Kings in the North. And who is that king? Brandon Stark? He was a cripple, the last time I saw him. And Rickon Stark is ten.” And then he realized. Did Sansa declare herself Queen? No, that wasn’t possible. She was the girl who talked of stuffing pig shifts in her enemies’ beds.

“Jon Snow, my Lord Hand. He has declared himself King in the North, and the Knights of the Vale have declared for him.”

Tyrion narrowed his eyes, “That’s not possible. Jon Snow is a man of the Night’s Watch.” He glanced at Daenerys. She was feeling out of her depth.

“Here,” he pointed at the point where the river met the Kingsroad, “Winterfell. After the War of the Five Kings, Winterfell was taken by the Boltons from the Ironborn, making them Wardens of the North. And there, the Wall, patrolled by the Night’s Watch,” he turned to Varys, “I know Jon Snow. I was with him when I visited the Wall. The boy is no King. Besides, he’s a bastard of the South.”

“Lord Eddard Stark’s blood flows through him. Apparently, that’s all that matters to the Northmen.”

“And what of the fact that he’s also a deserter?”

“The Warden of the North passes the sentence, but he’s declared himself King now,” Daenerys interrupted, “So you have your conundrum.”

Tyrion smiled, impressed, and she smiled back. She was learning. He turned back to Varys.

“I still don’t believe that the North would rally behind a bastard who broke his vows. What of the Vale?”

“Petyr Baelish has declared for the Starks, my Lord Hand,” Varys replied, “And if you remember, the last time the Vale and the North allied. . .”

“They overthrew the Targaryens, yes. And the Riverlands?”

“Lord Walder Frey is dead. Murdered at his table. Along with his two eldest heirs.”

Tyrion snorted, “I can only imagine how my sister would take that.”

“It says your brother now holds Riverrun,” Daenerys read from the parchment, “Where’s that?”

Tyrion pointed at the meeting point of the Red Fork and the Tumblestone, “There. The Freys were made the Lords of Riverrun after the War of the Five Kings, but the late Blackfish managed to take it back, and then my brother took it from them. It is one of the most siege-proof castles across Westeros.”

“Hmm. Doesn’t sound very siege-proof.”

Tyrion laughed out loudly for a moment of humor in the wake of worrisome news. The tone of her voice reminded him of Bronn and his irritating pragmatism, “No, it really isn’t. But that’s my brother for you.”

“So who’s the Lord of Riverrun, now that the Freys are all dead?”

“Not all of them, Your Grace,” Varys said in his usual soft manner, “Lord Frey’s eldest natural-born son, Walder Rivers, stakes his claim on the Twins and the Riverrun. All the other heirs are either girls or infants.”

A knock on their cabin door, followed by a man’s voice, “Queen Daenerys?”

Tyrion understood from the abruptness in his voice that it was one of the Ironborn steering their ship. Daenerys rose, “Come in.”

The Ironborn came in, a tough young beast of a beauty of about twenty, “Lady Ellaria waits for you outside to greet you.”

“Oh please, handsome,” the familiar Dornish accent wafted in, and Tyrion stood up, “I’m no lady.”

Ellaria Sand walked inside. Her hair had been cropped short and she still was in mourning. Somehow, she looked even more beautiful and exotic after Oberyn’s death. Her hips swayed from one side to other as she made her way to Daenerys. In her somber, battle-ready clothes, she looked as much regal as Daenerys did. Where Daenerys was young, short and curvy, Ellaria was tall, slim and mature, even if the only emotion that drove her now was her desire for revenge.

She nodded, “Tales of your beauty do not do you justice, Queen Daenerys. It is a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Ellaria Sand, ruler of Dorne,” And then turned to look at him, her eyes narrowing.

Daenerys turned ever so slightly to Tyrion. He understood. She did not know how to address Ellaria. And neither did he. But she did not make her ignorance known for too long, “I’m glad you could join us, Ellaria. This is my Lord Hand, Tyrion—”

“—Lannister, I know, my Queen,” she said, brazenly interrupting her, but she did not sound angry or petulant or whatever it was she felt all the time, “He killed Tywin Lannister. He avenged the death of Elia Martell, her children and Oberyn Martell. Dorne will forever be in your debt, Tyrion Lannister.”

Tyrion felt flummoxed by the very warm response. He had expected her to at least be angry about the fact that Oberyn had died as his champion, or the fact that he had stolen her revenge by killing Tywin all by himself. At any rate, he did not like the assertion that somehow killing Tywin was a grand scheme in which he singlehandedly avenged the Targaryens and the Dornish and the Starks and everyone who had hated his father. He did not like being seen as a hero for killing him. He killed him for his own selfish interests, and that was that.

Daenerys quickly intervened, “What can I do for you, Ellaria Sand?”

“I’d like to speak with you alone, my Queen.”

Daenerys looked at Tyrion, and he understood, “I will send Missandei in, Your Grace.”

 Once, he and Varys were out on the decks, with Missandei inside, Tyrion kept stealing wary glances towards the cabins, where Daenerys was, with Ellaria and Missandei. The Dornish were an essential, and extremely skilled, part of their army, but Tyrion worried about their eccentric ruler, and that of the allegiance of her people. True, the Dornish kingdom had grown to loathe the Martells who did nothing despite the death of their princess. But Ellaria had staged a coup to take power from the Martells. Not much different from Cersei, but the point was that he knew Cersei. He knew what she’d do, and what corners she’d go to if she had to hide. He did not know Ellaria all that well.

“I understand your misgivings, my Lord Hand,” Varys said, as if he could read his minds, “But Ellaria Sand is an important alliance. Dorne has been the only kingdom to resist the Targaryens.”

“She killed her lover’s family. She killed her prince.”

“And you killed your father and your lover. Makes her no more trustworthy than you.”

That shut Tyrion right up.

“Daenerys Targaryen is not the kind to judge a person solely on their past actions,” Varys remarked.

“Thankfully. Or I'd be lying dead mixed with the sand in one of the fighting pits in Meereen, with my magic dwarf cock sold off to anyone who believed in its magic.”

Varys turned away, rolling his eyes. He did not appreciate cock jokes, Tyrion reminded himself.

“Varys?”

He turned back, “Yes, my Lord?”

“Do you think she loved me? I like to think that she did.”

Varys looked at him sadly, “You were harsh with her. She was angry. She wanted you dead. And sadly, my Lord, I will forever be ignorant of all the mysteries that lie at the bottom of a woman’s heart.”

Tyrion thought back, trying to bring the realm of logical reasoning into his memories of Shae. He raised an imaginary glass in the air, “As will I. To all the mysterious women in our lives.”

“I have no woman in my life, my Lord. You know that.”

Tyrion turned away, muttering under his breath, “How fortunate.”

 

* * *

 

It was almost nightfall by the time Jaime was called into the Queen’s chambers. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go in.

It had been two days since he had arrived at the capital to find that Tommen had killed himself, and Cersei had killed everyone she had wanted dead. With wildfire. Bronn hadn’t dared utter a word more than what was necessary. It was obvious just how unnerved he was. He made no statements about his sister as he once freely did. He took his money and did his work like a servant.

The first day she had accepted oaths of fealty. Jaime had expected to be renamed to the Kingsguard. For nearly half his life, it had been his place of honor, if only in name. Now, the capital, the Throne, it all disgusted him. It made his skin crawl from inside, to think that outside, around the Sept of Baelor, thousands had been blown to smithereens and here, his sister was crowning herself Queen. With Qyburn on one side and the Mountain on the other, Cersei, in a black gown and with Widow’s Wail on her hip, had looked formidable, beautiful. Power suited her. Control suited her.

So he was relieved when Cersei named him Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, if it only meant that he’d not have to live in the capital.

“Your Grace.”

“Ser Jaime,” she acknowledged his presence formally. Qyburn was inside the room with her, and Jaime had misinterpreted her intentions for summoning him so late, “How many Lannister men remain in your service after the siege of Riverrun?”

If it could be even called a siege, Jaime thought, “Twenty thousand. With about five hundred in King’s Landing, and rest stationed in Riverrun, the Twins and Casterly Rock.”

A hint of smile played along her lips, although her eyes remained impassive, a look that reminded him of his father, “Good. The Stark forces are less than a thousand strong. And as you’ve no doubt heard, they’ve crowned another Stark brat King in the North. So, you will ride North tomorrow at first light, and remind them of Robb Stark’s fate.”

“The Knights of the Vale—” Jaime began.

“The Knights of the Vale are under Lord Baelish,” she exclaimed, “and Lord Baelish will flock to whichever side is victor. Our numbers are greater.”

“Lord Baelish also knows that winter is come. Mounting an attack on the North in the winter is madness.”

“This is our only chance, Ser Jaime,” Qyburn said, but Jaime cut across him.

“The Neck is marshy. Lannister forces have not gone north of the neck in a thousand years. We’ll be on attack in the swamps from the front and the back.”

Cersei pursed her lips, and then turned to Qyburn, “Leave us.” Jaime found the man, despite his talents, unfit for trust. Just the kind of person Cersei would weave her conspiracies with.

Just as Qyburn had shut the door, Cersei had crossed the distance between them and captured Jaime’s lips in a simple sweet kiss, so soft that Jaime was, for a moment, transported back to the night before Cersei’s wedding, before all the misfortune had struck her. And, for that moment, Jaime could not resist himself.

“Come back to Casterly Rock with me, Cersei,” he stupidly breathed into her mouth when they parted to catch their breaths, feeling like an idiot even before her name left his lips.

Cersei tried to push him away when she heard him, but he held her close, “And then what?”

“Shh, it doesn’t matter anymore. All that kept you in the capital: Robert, our children, they’re all gone. The only things that matter now are you and I. No one can hurt us in Casterly Rock, sister.”

She sneered, “And be what? Trapped between the land and the sea as our enemies corner us and tear us apart?”

Jaime grabbed her wrist and squeezed as Cersei frowned, fighting the pain he was causing her, “And you’d rather stay here and rule over the people who’d kill you first chance they get?”

“They’d never get the chance at all. Unless you don’t bring me the head of that bastard and that whore Sansa.”

He squeezed tighter, prompting an ungainly squeal from her, “You did not become the Queen so that you could kill Sansa Stark.” It was not as much a question to her as much a question to himself.

Cersei smirked smugly, “And all my enemies. All our enemies. You said, after father’s death. They’d all kill us. We’ll kill them first.”

She jammed her knee into his leg, freeing herself from his painful grip and almost drawing her sword. But she was slow. Jaime had her in his grip once again, her face to the wall, his rough hands gripping her dainty arms.

“Let me go!” she demanded with her attempts unsuccessful at gaining the upper hand as they wrestled, “Jaime!”

“No,” he grunted in her ear. With his right hand, he restrained her upper body and her arms, while his left hand worked at the strings of his armour. Trying to free herself from him, she looked no Queen. She looked like his fifteen-year-old sister, “Never.”

“She killed my son, that traitor. Jaime, you know she did. Grand Maester—”

“You killed our son!” Jaime roared.

"He killed himself!" she cried, "If I had know—"

"How could you have not known?! Do you think I’d keep on living if I knew you were dead?”

Cersei’s futile attempts at freeing herself subdued as her body collapsed to the floor, and Jaime with it. He held her close and he held her tight while she silently wept in his arms. And when she was done, she wiped her tears away, her face so stony as if they had never been shed.

“Ellaria Sand controls Dorne, Olenna Tyrell and her forces have left the city, Walder Frey was killed at his own dinner table, the Boltons are all dead and the North has crowned that bastard their king.”

Jaime chose not to comment on their own sons.

“Don’t you see? Sansa Stark, Olenna Tyrell. We have to kill them all, Jaime. Otherwise we won’t be safe. They’ll tear us apart and they’ll kill us.”

Jaime shook his head, “Our men have no experience fighting in the winter. Theirs do. You know what happened to Stannis Baratheon.”

She grabbed him by his collar, “Stannis Baratheon isn’t you. And he did not attack from the South. You took Riverrun. You’ll take Winterfell too.”

Cersei spoke with a conviction that worried Jaime, “And how can you be so sure that I will be successful?”

Cersei smirked, and stood up, brushing the dust off her gown and adjusting the sword, before taking it off and keeping it on a chair near the table. She poured herself and Jaime some wine as he staggered to his feet, “Do you remember the lessons father gave us? Both of us? Maester Volarik wasn’t ready to school me in who the lords and what their holdfasts were.”

Jaime sipped at the wine cautiously, “A bit.”

“Around Winterfell, there’s a village called Winter Town. With the change in weather, the village will fill in with the smallfolk and the country people around.

When Jaime frowned, unable to follow. Cersei smiled broader, as if she had discovered something very crucial, “Winterfell is built atop hot springs so it is a warmer place than most of the North. Now, a lot of food and sheep will be stored inside the castle halls and the granaries, so you can expect the castle gates to be open almost all the time. And Winterfell will be crawling with those wretched northern savages. It’s gone through a siege. It’ll be in repairs.”

Jaime covered his face with his palms, “Okay.”

“Theon Greyjoy has proven that an enemy in the guise of a friend could take a castle as huge as Winterfell easily. So, five hundred of our best men, in the guise of these peasants will enter the town and smuggle armor and weapons inside. Once this is done, you will send a raven informing them about your visit under a flag of truce. The Northerners are a suspicious people. This will make them shut the gates, along with your men inside.”

And Jaime did not need to be told the rest.

“And once the castle falls, you will install a loyal Westerner as Warden of the North. The bastard will die, and Sansa will be brought here for trial by combat for Joffrey’s murder where Ser Gregor will fight her champion.”

Jaime understood Cersei’s implication. No, this he would not say yes to, “Sansa is guilty anyway. Her necklace was found on that fool’s body with traces of the Strangler. A simple trial will—”

“I want them both here, and I want them both dead,” Cersei insisted, her eyes flaring up, an alien hard tone in her voice, the sort he’d never expected to hear, “You ride for Winterfell tomorrow, Ser Jaime. Sleep well.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Jon never woke up cold.

Winterfell was like a human body. Warm water ran through it like blood through a Stark’s veins: hot, fast, reckless. Wolfskin blankets made a man sure he always slept warm. The sound of the fire cracking in the hearth was welcome enough to delude a man into thinking that he lay in a grand castle in the Reach with gardens and flowers and the sounds of birds around him.

And yet, the first time Jon woke up in Winterfell after his return, his toes wouldn’t move, frozen, rigid. His brow was covered with cold sweat. He felt as if his breath had been smacked out of him. His eyes were brown circles sunk deep in a hollow face.

Gripping for the chair near him, Jon forced himself out of bed. Back in Castle Black, he had thought that the cold wouldn’t affect him once he reached Winterfell. Cold never bothered him; he was a Snow, after all. Wearing his pants and his shirt, he looked out of the tower onto the snow-covered treetops of the Wolfswood. If it had been anyone but himself, he would’ve blamed the cold on the winter. But he knew better than that. It had to do much less with the season, or the impending Long Night, and much more to do with the stab wounds on his torso, or Olly’s haunting face, or Ser Alliser’s defiant stare while they hanged.

“Your Grace,” the voice came from outside the door, the voice of the Boltons’ maester, Kedry. Jon still had to make sure that they looked at him when they addressed him as _Your Grace_ , and not someone else.

He sighed, “Come in.”

Maester Kedry sat him down and touched his brow, then his underarms. Jon did not have to look at the man to understand his hesitation to speak.

“May I . . . see the wounds, Your Grace?”

Jon stripped dutifully, not saying a word more than what was needed. He knew that the maester was asking just to sate his own curiosity, and not for any genuine purposes of treatment. He did not allow many people to see them, the crescent-like shapes that were the only reminder of the _unnaturalness_ of his existence—save his sleep—however well they were known to his people: the wounds of the fabled Winter King who rose from the dead and hanged his murderers. Jon had hoped to keep it secret, but every man inside Winterfell knew.

The wounds were just as abnormal. They hadn’t been treated, they hadn’t festered. And it had been about a month since then, and they still hadn’t healed or closed. He doubted a maester could help him as such. He saw Maester Kedry only at the urging of Ser Davos.

“Your health seems to be improving, Your Grace,” Kedry bowed with every word, “The cold sweat has finally broken. As for your nights, I’ll recommend essence of nightshade.”

“I have no need for sleep aids,” Jon snapped, snatching his shirt back from the chair where he had put it, “Medicine is a crutch.”

“A disliked one, I’m sure, Your Grace,” Kedry spoke humbly, and Jon could not help but notice the stark contrast between the bowing-and-scraping Boltons’ fearful maester, and Maester Luwin, who was more advisor to, and an extension of, the Stark family than a servant, “however necessary.”

“Thank you, Maester Kedry,” Jon said, with firm finality in his tone. The man understood, and excused himself.

It was by seven in the morning that Jon met with Ser Davos at the Hall. The peasants had started trickling into Winter Town. Illiterate as they were, they somehow managed to predict the change in seasons more accurately than the archmaesters at the Citadel ever could. The first of them had come in with the white raven announcing the advent of winter. Jon looked out at his people worriedly. Every step to be taken now had to be weighed carefully. He had had no wish to denounce the fealty to the crown that his father had sworn. He had sworn to stay clear of the politics of the realm. The rage that he had felt when they had executed Lord Stark had abated long ago. Made him almost apathetic. But he knew his lords had joined him to take Winterfell, and for glory, and for self-rule, for independence of the North. His lords had certainly not taken up arms against the Crown to battle the White Walkers and the Long Night, and the imminent starvation that would come with it. Jon wasn’t sure that his lords even understood the sort of threat they faced, even though he would say so every time he met them, to remind them of their real fight. He was leading his people into another battle where he would have to disregard politics and would have to do the right thing. But doing the right thing had got him killed before. And this time, there was no Red Woman to bring him back.

Because the right thing was Iron Throne’s help. North’s independence wasn’t important. For what was independence without survival?

Ser Davos’ face was as white as his beard when he greeted Jon, “Your Grace, I—”

Jon waited for him to finish, while Ser Davos struggled with words, something he was rather good and honest with, “Speak, Ser Davos. Have no fear.”

Ser Davos gulped, “It be best if you come, Your Grace. To the kennels.”

Jon frowned, but said not a word. As they walked out, he could feel Sansa’s eyes on him. Out of the five, Sansa was the one he had been least acquainted with, save of the rants he would hear from Arya. From what he knew, Sansa had taken up after Lady Catelyn, from her looks to her manners and her speech, she was Catelyn Stark reincarnated. The games of time and need had played well on both of them. He had mentioned to her just how astonished he had been to see the Knights of the Vale swarming the battleground minutes before the extermination of their army. What he could not understand was that why Sansa had not told him about this option of the Vale at her disposal. Did she think he’d refuse? While he did not trust Lord Baelish, he would’ve only asked her to be cautious, not to reject his offer.

That’s when he heard the howling. And barking.

Jon was instantly on alert. Barking, howling, birds flying here-and-there, they were all traditional premonitions of the shaking of the ground beneath them. Ser Davos looked at him, and shook his head, as if understanding his guess.

As they got near the kennels, the barking increased in volume. Followed by the strong stench of blood of the likes that Jon hadn’t got close to since the Battle of the Bastards. That’s where Ser Davos was probably taking him.

“The Princess Sansa,” Ser Davos spoke with difficulty, “Your Grace . . . Ramsay Bolton was . . .”

Jon did not need any more explaining. As Jon peeped inside the dark kennels, he could see a chair, and a half-a-human sitting on it, covered with blood and his own guts and hair and the _hounds_ , they were all over his parts. The biggest one was feeding on what looked like a liver.

Jon almost retched at the sight, “That is—?”

He looked shaken too, and Jon knew Ser Davos to be a man of the steeliest steel, “The last Bolton, Your Grace. Eaten by his own hounds. On the orders of Princess Sansa.”

Jon did not bother to pass his judgment. Ramsay Bolton was a prisoner. His prisoner, under his protection. His first failure as a King. The dogs barking, it sounded like they were berating him, jeering him. It’s not as if he had any use for Ramsay, he told himself, and that was true. He had got what he deserved. For killing Rickon. For torturing Sansa. For smothering Winterfell and its people with his flayed abominations.

And yet, he found little justification in Sansa’s act of horror. There were a lot of people he had wanted dead in the cruellest ways imaginable: Joffrey Baratheon, Theon Greyjoy, Craster, Roose Bolton. But Maester Aemon and Mormont had taught him better.

Jon turned away, and walked back towards the broken First Keep, Ser Davos in tow after him, “No one can be expected to clean this before the dogs are finished. Cover the kennels out of sight, let no one near. When they are done with their meal, burn the rest.”

As they made their way past the Winterfell gates which were in repairs, Jon’s heart saddened to see the giant Wun Wun’s lifeless body lying across the better part of the ground. His entire body was covered with arrows. The giant had been a noble one, a being of few words and more of action. He remembered their time in Hardhome, that moment of sheer wonder and awe, how those live skeletons had clung to him as he made his way out through the bay into the Shivering Sea. Jon looked away from him. Those at Hardhome, he couldn’t save them. The men who joined him in battle, the wildlings, he had saved them only for them to be butchered at the hands of the Bolton army. The Night’s Watch remained defenseless, with no people ranging out beyond the Wall. The horn of Joramun was still missing, vulnerable. There had been word of Sam that he had reached Horn Hill, his ancestral home, but none thereafter. He had made no difference.

“The lords of Winter seek your presence at breakfast, Your Grace,” Ser Davos spoke, his voice flat.

“What for?”

“They mean to discuss strategy.”

Jon frowned, “What strategy?”

“Best meet with them and hear what they have to say. Especially the old Lord Manderly. White Harbour is the only true city of trade in the North, Your Grace. Food, provisions, trade, they’re all necessary for surviving the winter.”

Jon nodded, “Then I will go at once,” after some thought, “Send for Sansa too.” He avoided the title of ‘Princess’ yet. He was a man of the Night’s Watch, where each man got what he earned when he earned it. Sansa had won them the battle but she hadn’t earned the title, and he sure as hell had not earned his.

Ser Davos did a head nod, “At once, Your Grace.”

Jon walked through the castle silently, wondering where Ghost had gone off to. He hadn’t seen him by the kennels, drawn to the scent of blood. He was about to turn off when he saw the stone foundations of the vault of the dead, the crypt. For no particular reason, he found himself walking into it, down and down by the stone staircase.

The burial place of the Winter Kings and lords of Winterfell was a dark and desolate place. The slippery walls, illuminated by the scant number of candles—Jon did not know the sorry person employed to light them every day—gave off a greenish hue. Warm water trickled through its surfaces. There was the sound of running water in the distance; Jon had never once been successful in getting to the source, however Arya had oft said that she knew. There was an underground hot lake beneath the underground stone vaults of Winterfell that charged both the lake in the Godswood and the water than ran through the crypt.

Arya. The last he’d heard of her was from Sansa herself. Arya had been seen by Brienne 10-20 miles off the Eyrie, deep in the Mountains of the Moon. What was to say that she survived after all, or perhaps lay face down somewhere below a cliff? From what he remembered of the lessons of maester Luwin that Robb told him of, the Mountains were filled with the savage hill tribes.

Or perhaps Arya was alive after all. But where? And doing what? Jon had lost too many loved ones. One more, one less, it was starting to make no difference.

He and Robb had often played around here when they were small, hiding behind the statues, under statues, in the likeness of them, while one tried to find the other. Dead did not worry the children, not unless they had an older person, most often Jory Cassel. Then Theon came along, small, bony, sad and lonely. He was nine-and-a-half, and he was ten-and-a-half, while Robb was days away from his tenth nameday. They took him in as boys would take in a new brother, like Bran or Rickon, and three boys were more fun than two.

Jon sighed, and the crypt sighed with him. The closest to the entrance of the crypt was supposedly the burial site of First Winter King, Brandon the Builder. The farther one went, the closer time got to his age.

 Walking across as silently as he could, Jon came across the statue of Torrhen Stark, The-King-Who-Knelt and the first Lord of Winterfell, with a large direwolf curled around his feet. Walked and walked, contemplating, till he came upon the statue of his grandfather, Lord Rickard Stark, and his uncle, Brandon Stark. However that was not the pull he felt. It came from behind him, like a string tied in his chest, in him, being pulled by someone. He turned.

Lyanna Stark stood before him, her form immortalised in stone, her eyes looking upwards, as if towards the sun above her. Jon examined her closely. She had been young when she had died, or so they said. And she was said to have been the most beautiful maid in the North: wild and free-spirited. No wonder wars were fought for her.

Wild and free-spirited. It reminded Jon of Ygritte. Of her hair, kissed by fire. Of the hair down below. Wildness killed a girl, if history was any proof.

Jon placed a hand in her outstretched palm. A feather remained there, a token of affection. He took it in his grip and looked upwards, following her gaze, hoping to find some answers. His eyes only met the mossy green ceiling.

_Promise me._

The whisper was too close to Jon’s ear, sending a tingling sensation down his spine. Startled, he drew his hand away. Lyanna Stark remained standing, unmoving. Jon blinked, bemused. He had heard a woman’s voice, a troubled voice, almost weeping. He tried to control his breath, his eyes darting from one direction to other. He was completely alone.

“The dead have many lessons to teach, Your Grace.”

Jon stiffened, and turned around. The soft lilting voice could belong to only one man.

“Lord Baelish,” he responded, glancing at him and back to Lyanna Stark, “what brings you here on a morning as pleasant as this?”

“Fascination, Your Grace,” Baelish mused, folded hands, his eyes creeping over Lyanna’s stone body, from face to bust to the skirt to feet, “A great beauty, your aunt was said to be, and with an old name. Of course, one wouldn’t have to even look at her to know that. The two most fearsome warriors of the realm fought each other to death for her. History is a witness.”

Jon sighed, “Aye.”

“She had the Stark look,” Baelish was now looking directly at Jon, who looked straight ahead at Lyanna’s face, “And the Stark mind. I was Hoster Tully’s ward when I first saw her, Your Grace. At the Lord Whent’s tourney at Harrenhal, when Rhaegar Targaryen placed a crown of winter roses in Lyanna’s lap, naming her the Queen of love and beauty.”

Jon said nothing. He stared ahead resolutely.

“They speak,” Baelish whispered very close to his ear, the warm breath and spittle almost impossible to ignore, “of her abduction. Her rape. Her murder.”

Jon turned to face him finally, “Why are you speaking of this?”

“So why was it that when Prince Rhaegar put the garland in her lap with his lance, Lyanna Stark’s face reddened into a smile that turned into shock after her brothers’ outrage?”

Jon looked into Baelish’s hollow eyes, looking for any indication of a lie. And then his anger turned into a sneer, and he turned away from him, smiling humourlessly. He knew the likes of this man, cheap and low-value and cowardly. He could sense Baelish’s slightly surprised expression out of the corner of his left eye.

“The lords of Winter and the Vale await me at the breakfast table, my Lord. I hope we don’t have to start without you.”

With that, he placed the feather back in Lyanna’s outstretched hand and swept out of there without waiting for Baelish, having wasted too much time at the crypts.

“Have you wondered ever,” Baelish called out after his retreating figure, “how you look more Stark than any of the other five?”

Jon would not have stopped. Meaningless words did not matter to him. But courtesy called upon him. He would not walk away while an important lord spoke. It was disrespectful, especially of a king.

“With all due respect, my lord,” Jon turned, “I have always been more concerned with my blade than with my looks.”

Baelish smirked, and walked up closer to him, as if he’d finally tricked someone into giving him the prize, “Your Grace, _that_ is the exact same thing Lyanna Stark said to Hoster Tully when he first met her.”

 

* * *

 

The atmosphere of the pub was as solemn as that of a funeral. There was no music, only some chatter that verged on polite, and none of the raucousness of a typical inn. The rosy cheeked girl with the nice tits and the deep cleavage who served the ale was all in black. The pork chops were too salty, as if the cook had cried all over when he made the food. Food that tasted disgusting and was unworthy of going into anyone’s gut. Outside the wooden door, Lannister men in red and golden armour stood in guard, noting everyone inside the pub. No one was allowed to leave, and no one was allowed to enter. A minute ago, two merry youths had turned up in the Street of Steel, completely drunk. The soldiers had run them through with their castle-forged swords.

The Queen Mother had, in the event of the King Tommen and Queen Margaery’s death, and of the destruction of the Sept of Baelor on the _Terrible Tuesday_ , declared an emergency in King’s Landing.

All trade was to be suspended for a week of mourning. No birds were to chirp and glide the skies. The city gates had been shut, and the sails folded and the ships anchored at the harbour, with all men and women confined to the insides of the houses or wherever they happened to be at the time the soldiers declared the curfew. The only ones to roam the city were to be the City Watch and their Lannister horde.

Gendry had been in the pub three days ago, two days after the death of the Boy King when Lannister men had arrived and closed the door despite the weak protests of the old keeper. The old jeering men who were now “trapped” in there with its food and ale had grunted happily at the news and asked their mugs to be filled.

“It’s rubbish, eh?” the barkeeper, balding and old and weak, cleaned the table in front of him, nearly wiping Gendry’s arms resting on the table with the filthy old towel, “One month ago, she walks flashing her tits and cunt to the entire city, and now she’s Queen.”

Gendry smiled politely, but did not bother to respond back. Years had taught him never to respond to force, at least not by dissent.

“Seven days of mourning and curfew with these drunken sons of whores because of that Lannister bitch. Who is she to tell me who’ll remain where?! This is _my_ pub. I have the right to kick out anyone I like.”

He almost laughed, and the old man, serious and pissed, looked at him as if he’d committed a felony.

“Oh, laugh all you like, boy. I’ve spent fifty years of my life listening to the laughs of drunken little lechers who told me to stuff my bull elsewhere. But you know what I think? I think they’re all cowards. They ain’t got no shit. They ain’t got no guts to spit out what is right and what is not!”

“Oh, and you do?” Gendry couldn’t resist.

“Oh, I do, boy. I do. The High Sparrow was right, the Seven bless his soul.”

Gendry frowned. The High Sparrow and his Faith Militant were also against establishments like the ones that this man owned. For a repressive regime of three months, the Faith Militant had managed to terrorise the whole city with their violence. It had started with a “cleansing” operation. Whorehouses were closed and vandalized with graffiti and broken windows, with its whores and clients being dragged naked out in the open to be made to walk the “Walk of shame”. Faggots were tied to horses by their cocks, dragged around till they tore off. Caskets of ale had flowed out in the street, pubs destroyed and drunkards kicked out of the pubs. Anyone who dared to lap up the spilled drink was sentenced to 10 lashes on the spot.

Despite the strict surveillance of the Faith Militant, pubs like the one Gendry was sitting in had sprung up. Not all Sparrows were so devoted and chaste enough. While the barkeeper had allegedly stopped serving alcohol during the short reign of the Faith Militant by devoting himself to the service of the High Sparrow and providing “shelter” for the members of the Militant in his inn, he’d promptly opened up the several hidden caskets of ale to be served when the city heard the destruction of the Sept of Baelor.

“What?” the old man, with his crinkly face and a politically astute mind, had remarked, when his customers had greedily, but suspiciously, looked up at the offer of ale after three months of dry season, “I loved the High Sparrow. You know it, folks! But I ain’t the one stupid enough to mix business with love. They’re all dead anyway. 5 coppers per mug.”

Sure as the rising sun, the day after _Terrible Tuesday_ saw the brutal extermination of the remaining few Faith Militant just as the barkeeper had predicted. Most of the members of the Faith Militant had died with their Sept. Lannister soldiers and the gold cloaks had allied themselves as they carried out public executions of the remaining Sparrows under the Queen’s orders, mostly in combat, in numbers as high as five soldiers to one Sparrow. The ones who had surrendered had been hanged in the public squares.

People could watch from their homes, but no one was allowed to come out until “law and order was restored to the King’s Landing”, by royal decree, suspending freedom of movement and trade.

Gendry had himself come back to King’s Landing after the death of King Joffrey, believing that now that the King was dead, no one would bother him with his parentage.

“Right about what?” He asked the old man, out of pure curiosity. The old man had been, over the course of three days, been a constant jab at his streamlined and ordered thoughts, with his ideas of a State and government and anarchy.

“Oh, the High Sparrow was a good man, lad,” he kept the rag away and leaned in, speaking in a low voice, “Why should a couple of high-born pricks decide what I want to do? Why should they decide whether I want to serve tea or ale? What power do they have?”

Gendry rolled his eyes, “They’re the kings.”

He chuckled, “That they might be, boy. But they are the few. And we are the many.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this one came up a bit delayed. Next one will be up in days, I promise.
> 
> Review?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just because this chapter was put up real fast doesn't mean that all chapters will be put up as fast. I had written this up when I realised that the original chapter 2 had gotten too long so I decided to split the two.
> 
> I was really surprised that no one mentioned Gendry's re-entry to the story. I really kept thinking, like, what's gonna happen in the end? Is Dany going to be Queen? Is Jon going to be King? Is everybody going to be killed by the White Walkers? And then I thought, man! Gendry is still there! He's the solution! Hail Roosevelt and Caesar!
> 
> I won't say any more. I've said too much :P

Jon was a quiet person.

Sitting at the High table at Winterfell during meal times, Jon rarely conversed with anyone unless someone asked for his attention. His food often remained untouched. He would watch the wooden table in front of him, deep in thought. Sometimes, once or twice during dinners, one lord or other would speak, and Jon would listen. He’d dutifully listen to everyone, and he’d not need to call out anyone. His lords would understand if he wanted them to stop talking, or if he wanted them to sit down and let someone else speak. Incredibly, not one proud lord of North or Vale remembered their status as long as Jon stood in front of them. Not one lord spoke out of turn. All of them understood his unspoken wishes easily.

Sansa, on the other hand, found it incredibly difficult to read him.

She could tell that those lords respected Jon’s authority ten times than that of Lord Eddard Stark. She could tell that they understood Jon’s moods. They all held him in a strange mix of respect and fear. Bastard or not, his prowess in battle, his legendary resurrection as the Winter King and the White Wolf, and his controversial decision of allying with the wildlings made him a tad bit terrifying in the eyes of his nobles.

Back when they were children, Sansa and Jon had the least of acquaintance, out of all the Stark children. Jon was always on the field, fighting, training with Ser Rodrik and Robb, riding the breadths of the hills surrounding Winterfell, and Sansa was always inside with Septa Mordane, with occasional rides out in the Godswood on her mare. But then also, Sansa would see how Jon’s face became smaller and his smile waned when her mother looked down at him with unadulterated hatred in her eyes. Out of respect for her lady mother, her father never had Jon dine with them, despite Robb’s, and later Arya’s, protests. And even though Sansa had always seen the sadness and the loneliness in Jon’s eyes as he went off to dine with Ser Rodrik, who loved him and all the Stark children equally and fiercely, she had never felt any compassion or sympathy for him.

Now, here he was, King in the North, and Sansa was only the Princess, the yet-unnamed heiress to Winterfell, sitting to his left.

She looked down as one noble rose and gave his address to the entire room. Her eyes travelled through the length and breadth of the room before settling on the probing, troubling gaze of Ser Davos Seaworth.

Sansa knew all houses and noble families by heart. But she’d never heard of the Seaworths. Regardless, the man had risen to be one of Jon’s most trusted advisors, always giving him raw, un-opinionated version of facts, or that’s what Jon called it. Sansa did not trust him. He was Hand to Stannis, and he’d changed camps just as defeat began to cast its shadow over their army.

Ser Davos looked away just as soon as Sansa looked at him. Looked away towards Jon.

Even though Jon was a good man, and the closest thing to a family she had, with the exception of Bran and Arya, who were both lost, she had little reason to trust him. Because Jon had little reason to trust her too. She was the heiress and the Princess of Winterfell. Now that she was his heiress, what’s to say he decided that she was a threat to his reign and decided to get rid of her? She’d heard of how Jon would deal with traitors and those who threatened his position as Lord Commander.

The lord finished his address, and before anyone else could stand up, Jon did, and Sansa noted that everybody but one sat up straight in attention. She’d seen powerful men. She’d seen her father, King Robert. None inspired the kind of single-minded attention that Jon did. She glanced at Littlefinger, the only person who did not sit up straight. How could he even wish to become the king as long as his own lords held Jon in a higher regard than him?

“My lords, ladies,” he said, and Sansa noted that he did not refer to her as ‘princess’, “Now that winter’s come, it’s time to put aside our quarrels and wars. My father used to say that summer’s the time for quarrels. Winter is when we protect ourselves, look after one another.

There was a murmur of agreement from among the lords.

 “During my time in the brotherhood of the Night’s Watch, my lords and ladies, I was faced with harsh decisions time and again. My father was held captive in the dungeons of the Red Keep like a common criminal and branded a traitor. But I remained at Castle Black because I had said my vows and the Night’s Watch was my family. My brother rode south into war. I still remained at Castle Black.

The attention of all the lords perked up even more. King Jon wasn’t saying what they were thinking he would say.

“The traitor Theon Greyjoy invaded and burned Winterfell down and killed everyone I knew as a child, and I still remained at Castle Black.

“My brother and Lady Catelyn were butchered by Walder Frey and Roose Bolton. Ramsay Bolton hurt my lady sister in ways a man never should. But I still remained at Castle Black, with the Night’s Watch because I was a sworn brother.

“My lords, that was not all. During my time in the Night’s Watch, as Lord Commander Mormont’s steward, I came to know the late maester at Castle Black. His name was Aemon Targaryen, and he was the elder brother to Aegon Targaryen, the Mad King’s father. His tale was no different than mine.

“He told me: ‘kill the boy, and let the man be born’. He guided me so that I may not be swayed by petty revenge, no matter how great the temptation. My final resolve was tested when the King-beyond-the-Wall attacked the Wall. Save for two, all my friends, boys I had grown up and made my vows with, had been killed defending their brothers. As did the Free Folk.

Sansa noticed how several lords bristled at that name.

“Believe me, my lords. My friends had died. I had no personal gain from making peace with the Free Folk. Even as I discussed terms of a stalemate with Mance Rayder in that tent, the sight of my brothers dead on the pyres made me want to take a dagger and stab him through the heart. But I didn’t. Revenge would’ve given me satisfaction, perhaps. But it wouldn’t have ended the war, because I realised that the Free Folk were not our real enemies. And I was the Lord Commander. I had no business with personal satisfaction.

“Then I made my harshest decision. I did what no Lord Commander had ever done before. I need not speak of it, my lords and ladies, you know what happened after. Aye, I was hated for what I did. My own steward, a boy of ten, drove a knife through me for doing what I thought was right. But I cannot blame them. They had not seen what I had seen. Not one person in this hall has seen what I have seen, save the Free Folk. And believe me, my lords and ladies, once you see it, you’d wish the Gods made you un-see it.

Sansa shifted in her seat.

“My lords, your enemy lies not to the south, but to the north. Your enemy is not the man or the woman who sits upon the Iron Throne. Your enemy is not Casterly Rock or the Iron Islands.

The hall was deathly quiet, with defiant, angry stares. Sansa exchanged glances with Littlefinger. He was poised for the next word.

“In times like these, when the realms of men are threatened by something that does not care for alliances and animosities, something that finds life in dead men, something that cannot be killed by swords and spears, something that smothers any living thing, the battle is clear. In these battles, the names of our Houses do not matter. Noble blood, peasant blood, it’s all the same to them as long as it flows inside us. It’s not a battle for glory. It’s the battle for life against death.

“I have not forgotten the injustice done to my family and my father’s House. But I have seen the real enemy. And winter has come. If we are to fight our battles for our life, we will keep our quarrels aside and we will fight them justly, with honour, together, to guard the realms of the living. All of us must take a vow, to not perpetrate crimes against the living, even in captivity.

Sansa stiffened, feeling as if that line was directed towards her. Whatever Jon said, Ramsay had got what he deserved. Jon did not know what it was like, being a woman. Jon had no idea of the crimes Ramsay had committed against her person and her dignity.

“Winterfell has enough grain to last three years of winter. In the whole of the North, our supplies will last about five years. White Harbour is our only city of trade. And our trade with the Free Cities and Oldtown has declined to about a fourth of what it used to be when my father rode to King’s Landing.

“Therefore, my lords, this battle will not be fought with arms till the very end. First, we must expand our food resources through more robust trade with the South and the Free Cities. So, I announce that trade with King’s Landing and Lannisport be re-opened at once, and existing trade between White Harbour and the cities of Oldtown, Volantis and Qarth be strengthened.

There was a gasp of shock around the hall. Since Joffrey executed Eddard Stark for treason, the North had cut off all relations and trade with the South, especially Lannisport, which hadn’t been resuscitated even after the Boltons came to power. Sansa glanced at Littlefinger, just to see what he thought of it. There was no expression on his face. Personally, she knew one thing. Jon was putting himself up on the table to be murdered once again.

“Owing to our victory at the Second Battle of Winterfell, and to the huge role that my lady sister played in rallying the Knights of the Vale to our cause, I, Jon Snow, King in the North, name Lady Sansa of House Stark as my ambassador in order to build the relations of the North with other kingdoms of the world, to strengthen trade, and for their support in that final battle.

Shocked, Sansa caught herself from reacting in any manner. The lords could not know of the level of communication, or lack thereof, between them. Ambassador? That was a huge responsibility and honour. She knew Littlefinger had himself served as the royal ambassador from time to time, most notably when he singlehandedly arranged the Tyrell-Lannister alliance.

Contrary to what she thought, Jon actually trusted her enough to appoint her for furthering Northern interests. And to think that she and Littlefinger had waited out . . .

She looked at Baelish once again. He was looking at her and smirking. Which meant that this was not good news.

“If anyone has any objections, they may speak now.”

There were soft murmurs but no one stood up.

“Also, as you are all lords of my realm, I ask all of you for your honest opinion and consent upon a controversial matter. Our trade links with the South will never be realized fully unless the kingdom of Northern Westeros is given proper diplomatic recognition as an independent sovereign country. Therefore, I ask you all to deliberate on whether the North should extend diplomatic recognition to Cersei Lannister as the Queen of the Five Kingdoms in return on the condition—”

No sooner had Jon said this that, for the first time since they won Winterfell back, most of the population in the hall stood up in protest, shouting and arguing loudly, with some comments thrown at Jon, some at one another. Words such as ‘green as grass’ were thrown around as easily as curses. Sansa grabbed his arm lightly and leaned in to whisper into Jon’s ear, “What are you saying? Do you want to be killed again?”

But Jon simply gave her a stern look until she removed her arm. He grabbed his cup and banged it hard on the table, “My lords!”

Most of them turned to look at him. The old Lord Manderly walked up to the front, “You might be my king, but you’re still a boy, Snow.”

The hall gasped into silence at the name. Jon looked at him icily, “I wasn’t finished, my lord.”

“You think I want to hear the end of that?! A true Stark would never ally with the ones who killed his family!”

“You don’t have to teach me about being a Stark, my Lord. I am more a Stark than you will ever be.”

“Aye, that be true. But your brother rode south to release your lord father and your lady sisters. Your brother died fighting against those who killed his family. You want all that to be undone?”

Before Jon could speak and it changed into an execution scene, Baelish spoke up, walking up to Lord Manderly, “Allow me to interfere, Your Grace, my lord, but giving diplomatic recognition to Cersei Lannister is not a good option.”

Jon sat down, fingers crossed, “Go on, Lord Baelish.”

“House Martell has deep resentments towards the Throne, and so does House Tyrell. The Baratheons are dead but their bannermen don’t have any love for the Lannisters. And with the murder of Walder Frey and his heirs, the Lannisters don’t have any real power or allies left. And as admirable as your sentiments may be, the other Houses will still view a friend of Cersei Lannister as their enemy.”

Sansa frowned. Baelish was speaking truth. But why was he helping Jon?

“Then what do you recommend, my lord?”

“Your Grace, I have declared for House Stark, and you have two kingdoms under your rule. But there is one more battle that must be fought. Riverrun, Lady Catelyn Stark’s ancestral home,” he turned to Sansa at this point, “is still occupied by the Lannisters and the Freys. Control of the Riverlands gives us control over the Trident and its fertile lands.”

“We cannot afford any more wars, Lord Baelish,” Sansa piped up, “Wars mean supplies, weapons, money, men. If the maesters are right, then it’ll be the coldest one in a thousand years and we cannot afford to spend any of that.”

“Be that as it may, Princess, but—”

“This is why we don’t marry our daughters with little lords here up in the North, we marry them to proper lords who were born to be lords,” Lord Glover replied, his booming voice cutting across Baelish’s and pissing off the men of the Vale, “Men who haven’t fought in wars shouldn’t talk of wars.”

Sansa was torn between amusement and indignation at that. The Northern lords were always a bit too relaxed with their tongue, her mother always said. Especially when it came to the “southron” folk.

“And men who forsake their allegiance to their liege lords at the hour of their greatest indeed know nothing of loyalty towards their late Lady of Winterfell,” Baelish retorted smoothly before turning to Jon, “And not just that, Your Grace. Most of the fish culture in Westeros comes from the Riverlands. The annual harvest is second only to the Reach. I may be the Lord of Harrenhal and the Lord Paramount of the Trident,” at this point, his voice echoed powerfully around the silent hall, as if reminding everyone who he was now, and how much land and power and titles he held, “But in practice, whoever rules Riverrun rules the Riverlands.”

“Almost like saying you don’t have any real power,” Lord Glover remarked aloud, leaving his place of honour and sauntering up to Baelish and Manderly to bow in front of Jon, “Your Grace, the only task more difficult than winning the Riverlands is holding it. It’s got no natural borders, no defenses on either side. The Ironborn reap and go as they please. There’s the Lannisters in the West and the crownlands to the east. It’s overrun by looters and terrorists and insurgents. Even if we took Riverrun, it could be years, even decades before stability is brought to it.”

“If I may speak, my lords, Your Grace.”

Everyone turn around to face Ser Davos, who pushed his chair to rise. Jon nodded slightly, “Speak, Ser Davos.”

“While Lord Baelish speaks truly, we continue to forget our goal, Your Grace. And that is fighting against the winter. The rest of the kingdoms can hate each other all they like. But war will not bring them together. War will divert them from the ultimate battle. Your Grace, we must inform the lords of the realm of the doom that they face.”

“What difference will that make?” Lady Mormont stood up, “The Night’s Watch has time and again written to all the lords of the Westeros asking for men and supplies. Only the North supplies men for the Night’s Watch. The rest of the Seven Kingdoms does not.”

“Begging your pardon, my lady, but a request from the Night’s Watch was exactly what made King Stannis ride north with a hundred thousand men to defend the Wall.”

“Because you had an interest in the North. We received your king’s letters asking for men. You believed that the North would rally behind your king to attack the South.”

“If it hadn’t been for us, Mance Rayder’s army would’ve crossed the Wall and we would have been making preparations to withstand the next siege.”

“Lady Mormont is right,” Lord Royce stood up, interrupting them, “Writing to the realm will make no difference at this point. If our words are not taken seriously the first time, they will not be taken seriously ever. But Ser Davos is right too. Your Grace, the realm must be informed, but not at this point of time.”

Sansa leaned in to listen. Jon unfolded his hands, “Go on, my lord.”

“The other kingdoms must see the seriousness behind our words. As it is, once word of this Night Army reaches the other lords, they will try to deny it, laugh at it. Most of all, the Archmaesters of the Citadel who do not believe what the Night’s Watch has said time and again, and who call the North superstitious at every turn. They will try and undo our words, and what king and what lord would listen to the words of a young deserter from the Night’s Watch than the wise Archmaesters?

“My youngest son Waymar was a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch. I escorted him to the Wall myself. On the day he was lost, he had been accompanied by two other rangers, one of which deserted his post. They say that before he was beheaded, he spoke of the white walkers killing my son. And I’ve never known a man to lie before his death.

“Before we ask other lords to commit to our cause, we must do so ourselves. Therefore, I, Yohn Royce, Lord of Runestone, hereby pledge one hundred men in service to the Night’s Watch.”

Sansa smiled. By saying that, Lord Royce had made sure no other lord ever spared at least less than a hundred men to the Night’s Watch.

“Cersei Lannister cannot rule the Five Kingdoms for long,” Baelish remarked, “I say, let the Martells and the Lannisters battle each other out. My money is on the Martells. Once the Lannister soldiers leave Riverrun into battle, it’ll fall. Either way, we must take Riverrun if we are ever to survive the winter, Your Grace.”

Those words were familiar to Sansa. _Let Roose and Stannis battle. If Stannis wins, he’ll name you Wardeness of the North, grateful of your late father’s courageous support of his claim._

She also knew that that never came true. That would no longer come true.

“Little southron shits, the lot o’ you!”

All heads turned to the back of the hall, where the wildling host was gathered. Tormund Giantsbane’s hair and beard looked fierier as sunlight filtered in through the windows.

“All I heard since this cursed morning, since Jon Snow ended his big-ass speech, was _this House is weak and that lord is strong_. _Oh, I am this big lord with so many titles, and oh, I know war and you don’t know war. We should attack the rivers because there are fishes in that river, we should kill that lord because he didn’t show up in Winterfell! You weren’t there when they needed you, let the others fight and we’ll steal the rest!_ This is all I’ve fucking heard, and I am about to tell all you little southerners that you don’t know shit.”

Sansa glanced at Jon. He was trying hard not to smile. She did not know it was possible to offend just about every big lord in so less words.

“And we are to assume,” Lord Royce’s face was stern at the impertinence of this wild-haired barbarian, “that you know more of combat than us, we who are veterans of fifty battles—”

“I know what you call ‘battle’, old ser,” Tormund sneered, “It’s when you take your fancy weapons that your daddy passed on to you and you hit at each other like the fancy lads you all grew up as. Aye, it’s when you climb your horses, horses that have proper leather saddles, and you wear your armour so you take the hit. And I reckon you got the stupidest reasons for doing battles. The one I keep hearing about, some southern boy took off with a northern girl and you said, ‘give her back or we’ll fuck each one of your dead corpses.

“We don’t battle because a boy took off with a girl. We did not attack the Wall because someone said ‘I think I’ll take these lands’ and we all said ‘hell yes’. Every day, we battled for our lives. We battled for our food. We battled for these rags,” he poked at his own clothes, “We battled so that we could sleep the night in peace. We fought because we wanted to hide behind your wall of ice. We wanted to live. We wanted to be saved by what is coming after us all.

“You don’t know the north, old ser. The closest you’ve all been to the north, the _real_ north was the dead giant you saw on your way in.

“While we sit here, doing fancy things like _talking_ and eating soft decorated meat, an army marches on the Wall. Jon Snow did the right thing when he came to Hardhome and saved us. All I and my men see here is a pack of old man-boys who want songs to be written after them because they missed their shot before.

“There’s bad blood between the Watch and the Free Folk, or else we would have all gone back to defending the Wall. What old ser says here,” Tormund pointed at Lord Royce, “makes the most sense out of all the baloney I heard today. Send men to the Wall, and more will follow.”

“Thank you, my lords, the free folk,” Jon rose, before Tormund could offend anybody else, “If anybody else has anything more to add?”

The hall remained quiet, fixated on the proud lords debating in the front, and the wildling leader challenging his authority. None of the smaller lords wanted to offend . . .

“Your Grace,” the young Lord Cerwyn rose, “We must decide the fates of the Karstarks and the Umbers.”

Despite the cold, the temperature of the room seemed to rise by several degrees. The tension in Jon’s face was palpable. The Umbers and the Karstarks were the oldest and the most powerful of the Northern Houses, second only to the Starks. The only sound that could be heard was the loud, complaining groan from Tormund. He rose noisily, and walked out in protest, his speech having not made any requisite effect on his audience. The young lord looked unnerved as the rest of the wildling host walked out.

“We will await their oaths of fealty, my lord,” Sansa replied, watching the wildling barbarian leave along with the rest of his host, “With every Northern House having come to Winterfell, we expect their support soon.”

“Begging your pardon, Princess,” he spoke, “but the Umbers handed Rickon Stark to the Boltons. Your youngest brother, who had appealed to them for safety and shelter. Justice must be done.”

“You are no better than the Umbers yourself, Lord Cerwyn,” Lady Mormont remarked loudly, “At least the Karstark heirs turned against King Robb when he beheaded their father, as it can be expected. You, on the other hand, pledged your loyalty to the Boltons when they flayed your lord father alive.”

“You speak truly, Lady Mormont,” Sansa spoke, “However, Lord Cerwyn’s refusal was natural and out of intimidation. Rickon was the youngest of my brothers. He was six years old the last time I saw him at Winterfell, and he was treated like a game bird during the last minutes of his life,” she breathed in sharply just as the arrow pierced Rickon’s little chest in her mind’s eye, “Justice will be done.”

Jon smiled at her tentatively. She nodded and looked down at her soup. It had gone cold.

“We’ve talked far too much for one breakfast, my lords and ladies. Even the food is cold and displeased,” Jon remarked, and there was a smattering of polite laughter. Manderly, Baelish, Glover and Royce, all returned to their places of honour. Sansa glanced at Jon, watched him discreetly as he dug into the meat, chewing sparingly, smiling slightly.

She waited for an explanation for Jon’s sudden, unexplained decision of making her his chosen representative outside the North. Kept watching him out of the corner of her eyes. Jon had said that they would need to trust each other, tell each other everything. But within days of that statement, Jon had unilaterally taken that decision, without even consulting her. Even though it was a high honour, the fact that Jon had not asked for her consent troubled her.

Jon did not seem worried in the slightest. He kept to himself and his meal, difficult to read as always.

 

* * *

 

“What are you going to do about it?”

Sansa was jolted back to real world by the soft, scheming voice of Lord Petyr Baelish.

“What?”

“About Jon’s offer, my dear.”

She rose from the stone, standing up and craning her neck upwards to get a good look of the weirwood tree. Her fingers traced the outline of the face carved into its trunk, to the dried red fluid over its carved eyes and mouth. As a girl she’d always wondered if it was blood, but had never dared to venture too close to a weirwood tree. They were the Old Gods, but they had always looked frightening to her. So she had always kept a safe distance while in prayer.

She licked her thumb and rubbed it on the dried red marks, and put it back into her mouth, hoping for the metallic tang of blood on her tongue. Sadly, it had no taste.

Disappointed, she rubbed her thumb with the skirts of her dress, “I can’t say no. He’s the king now.”

Baelish looked as if that word left bad taste in his mouth, “Because a ten-year old girl said so?”

“Besides it’s an order, not an offer. He has said that—”

“You’re to be his representative, yes. Did he say where or to whom? Did he explain it to you? Did he mention who’s going to protect you or accompany you?”

Sansa did not look at Baelish, afraid that he’d understand her innermost fears and verbalise them, make them seem less unreal.

“You’re his heiress, Sansa. Even if he hasn’t said that you are, the rest of the North will believe that you are his heir. And he cannot name someone else. Not while the Princess of Winterfell lives.”

“I know that.”

“An heir is a threat to king’s rule. _You_ are a threat to his rule. Making you his ambassador is just as good as exile.”

And there it was.

“I’m going back,” she declared, half-expecting to be grabbed by the arm, to be stopped, to be forced to listen to her insecurities.

“I’ve said time and again. Who should the North rally behind: a trueborn daughter or—”

She wheeled around, “Stop it!”

“—of Ned and Catelyn Stark born in the North, in Winterfell, or a motherless bastard of the South?”

“He’s as much Stark as I am,” she was no longer trying to convince Baelish. She was trying to convince herself. And failing miserably.

“Maybe. But he wants you out of his sight. Otherwise he’d have asked for your permission. Why else would he have done that?”

 _I don’t know_ , she knew better than to verbalise that. One moment of second-guessing and Littlefinger would exploit that window of opportunity. She and Jon had to stay strong.

“You’ve always told me to trust your bastard brother,” he kept saying, and there was no end to that soft, poisonous voice. It just wouldn’t stop, “I had told you to wait out the battle a little longer. With Jon Snow dead, you could have—”

“I did!” Sansa insisted vehemently, remembering her dismay when she saw Jon, alive and bloodied, climb from the pile of the dead and run in pursuit of Ramsay, “I did!”

Littlefinger smiled sadly, “Not long enough, my lovely princess. Not long enough.”

With that, he bowed to her, kissing the back of her hand softly, before turning around, leaving a trail of tracks in the ice. Sansa stayed under the protection of the ancient tree, in the cold where it punished her.

Far away, in the mist of the forest, there was a slender, broad-shouldered shadow. Sansa imagined it to be Brienne, before the figure revealed itself to be one of the wildlings who had come to pray in the Godswood.

Sansa thought miserably of Brienne and hugged herself in her solitude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any doubts about the plot (though not like 'Are Dany and Jon gonna meet?'), inbox me right away. One of the readers gave me a lot of ideas about what's gonna come next in the last chapter, so thanks to Tommyginger for her wonderful reviews :)


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